


Threads

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(HARRY POTTER AU) Sherlock Holmes is brilliant - the only man the Department of Magical Law Enforcement consults, ever. John Watson's a Healer who's gotten pretty good with charms. When Lestrade finds threads of a plot to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, Sherlock enlists John's help to pull, and soon, the loose threads are showing up everywhere.</p>
<p>That awful title is subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a chokingly normal day.

Healer John Watson was halfway through the first of his double biting 15 hour shifts at St. Mungo's when the new patients had come in with a swarm of official-looking Ministry folk - Aurors, probably; the more governmental types wouldn't have bothered.

There were two men, both unconscious and being carried in, and the interns crowded around the stretchers as they approached, loud and excitedly, until Sarah Sawyer (hospital director) had rushed over to put an end to it, dissipating the crowd.

John inched closer, curious. Whatever was going on had to be more interesting than the paperwork about his rounds.

"What's happened?" she asked, glancing towards a man John recognised (although from where, he wasn't quite sure). He had silvery brown hair, wetted down now by a bit of sweat, and still clutched his wand in hand, catching his breath.

"This man here--" he gestured towards the first stretcher, carrying a man clutching still at his stomach and passed out with blood at his lips, "--needs to go to the potions ward. Ministry custody, though, we'll need guards posted outside his room at all times, anti-Apparition charms of course, and we'll come to collect him once he can stand. He's the guy behind the artefacts heists.

"This one--" He moved to gesture towards the other, a man in a dark coat who'd clearly been burned, badly, "--is the sorry sod who caught him. He needs to see the fourth floor. Flagrante curse." John perked - that was his department.

"I'll take him, if that's all right," he said, walking over. The man looked up at him, surprised, then back to Sarah.

"Yes, that's fine. I'll need to call someone down for this guy." She sighed, then waved John off. "Get him his own room, he'll be here a while."

True enough. The burns looked rather extensive. Luckily, John was pretty sure he could do something about it. He took hold of the stretcher and began pushing it down the hall. When they reached the stairs, the wheels folded under it and the bed began to follow John up with a simple enough command. Always had to be careful not to drop that patient, though. That had happened once or twice in John's earlier years. Embarrassing.

The fourth floor of St. Mungo's was reserved for Spell Damages, and any patient who'd been injured in any kind of spellwork, be it a charm or transfiguration gone wrong or a curse or hex intended to do harm from the beginning, was brought there. John wheeled the bed through the ward, passing the rows of beds in the main room. Those were mostly filled with people who were only going to be there for a number of hours to a day at the most - kids who'd been playing pranks, youngsters who'd caused accidents, adults with wands gone awry. John approached the back hall, the stretcher still gliding soundlessly behind him, and moved to the empty room number five.

Before he could start anything, he needed to find out who he was even treating. Nobody had given him a name... he _could_ run back downstairs and get Sarah and ask her, but she was probably busy with the other patient. The other option was to rouse the guy out of unconsciousness and try to ask him, but the burns looked bad... he'd be in a lot of pain if John woke him now, and that seemed unnecessarily cruel.

He'd have to try to do a little detective work, then.

John fished carefully through the man's pockets and stopped when he found a simple leather wallet. Pulling it out, John studied the ID card within. It was stamped with the Ministry of Magic seal and signed by the Minister himself. It looked very official.

_Auror Gregory Lestrade  
Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

The picture on the side, however - a man with greying hair with a forced sort of weak smile and worrying eyes that darted around - didn't belong to the man in the bed. It belonged most definitely to the man John had seen and half-recognised downstairs.

He frowned and dove back into the pocket for something else. Sure enough, there was another wallet inside - nicer leather, more worn and soft. John flipped it open.

There was a myriad of notes inside scrawled hastily on parchment and then shoved in where bills would be kept. John saw a few coins crammed in as well and left them be. There was a frequent buyer's card for Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley and another for a shop he didn't recognise. Finally, John came across the ID card - a little less official-looking that Gregory Lestrade's, but still different from John's.

_Auror Sherlock Holmes  
Consulting Member of Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

A consulting auror...? That didn't make a lick of sense. It was signed, though, by Gregory Lestrade himself, with Sherlock's own loopy, small signature on the back. The picture on this card matched John's patient much better - pale skin; high, prominent cheekbones; a mess of loose, dark curls. On the stretcher, Sherlock's eyes were closed, but in the photograph, they peered out unmoving in an icy blue colour John had never seen before. They almost looked enchanted. 

Folding the wallet, John set both Sherlock's and Lestrade's on the side table and pulled out his wand, waving it towards the stretcher. The wheels descended again and settled on the floor, gently settling Sherlock in. John murmured a charm designed to make the bed, although on wheels, stay where it was until told to do otherwise and then set to work examining Sherlock more closely himself.

He was definitely out cold, but he didn't look like he was in danger of dying any time soon. John needed to get an idea of how extensive the burns were. He sighed, slowly beginning to peel back the layers of clothing.

The man was attractive, there was no doubt about that, but John wasn't a man's man anyway as far as he'd decided, and he was professional enough to divorce himself from those kinds of feelings while working anyway. The only thing that really caught his attention was the nasty way his jacket and shirt had singed into his right arm, and John carefully pulled away as much as he could before he realised he'd need to cut the cloth away by hand from here.

John worked quickly to strip Sherlock down and catalogue the burns - right arm, chest, left hip, right lower leg. It had been a fairly intense attack and a very well-cast curse. In a Muggle hospital, John knew, burns of this calibre would never heal properly, and the recovery time would take months. Luckily, magical burns were something different, and John had quite a few more tactics at his disposal than Muggle doctors would. He'd be able to fix this. He'd seen worse.

With a nurse's help, John applied some salve to the burns - Donahue's Magical Ointment for Dreadfully Awful Curse Effects and Flesh Wounds - and let Sherlock get some rest. The salve would have to set for at least five hours before John could do any helpful spellwork on the affected skin. In that time, John was hopeful he could get in a nap. His shift had ended fifteen minutes ago. Going all the way home was silly - it would take up an hour of his time going a normal route, and he'd never been a big fan of apparition to get to and from unless it was an emergency. There was a sleeping break room mostly used by interns with beds, and John settled down in one of those, pulling the blanket over him.

Not the most comfortable of accommodations, but he'd see to actually getting home once this monstrous double shift was over. He had five hours to sleep. He was going to need every single one of them.

\----------

Two and a half hours in, the door suddenly burst open. John was jolted out of his sleep, sitting straight up in bed, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light coming in from the hallway outside. The form of one of the nurses was silhouetted, and John could just make out enough of her face to see that she looked panicked. When she spotted him, her eyes seemed to calm.

"Healer Watson," she said, putting a hand on her heart. "It's Holmes, sir, room 5, he's woken up and he keeps trying to leave, Briarson's trying to talk him back into bed but he's insisting he see the healer in charge. He's making quite a scene."

John sighed, tilting his head back. God. Quickly pulling his shoes back on, he stood from the bed, pulling his robe back into place.

"He does realise he's putting me in no mood to deal with him," he murmured.

"We tried to tell him you were asleep, but he's--"

"Don't worry. I'll deal with it." John moved past her into the hall, going for his wand. They'd had to restrain patients with force before, but usually tried not to. Sherlock wasn't like the man downstairs who was legally obligated to stay, but as his doctor, John couldn't say it would be at all smart for Sherlock to leave. How he was even moving around without being in intense pain was baffling.

John could hear Sherlock's voice as soon as he stepped into the hall. "--and get Lestrade here was well, tell him there was something overlooked at the scene, it's _extremely important_ no one touches it, this wasn't a heist scheme, do you understand? Oh, of course you don't--"

John reached room 5 just in time to see Briarson, the head nurse, trying to press Sherlock back into his bed as gently as she could. "Healer Watson," he said, relieved, as soon as she saw him lingering just over her shoulder. "Finally." She relaxed, and Holmes did as well, looking at John curiously. "We've woken him up for you, now, are you happy?" she asked, hands going to her hips. "Honestly, Mr. Holmes, we're here to help you--"

But Sherlock didn't even seem to acknowledge her presence in the room any longer. His eyes were heavy on John.

"I'm interested in discussing my care," he said, cutting Briarson off. "Whose idea was it to use the Donahue Ointment?"

John blinked, surprised by the direct question. He glanced towards Briarson, who shrugged.

"Er, it's standard procedure for any burns or deep cuts," John answered, finally, as honestly as he could. "Donahue's Ointment does basic healing and primes the skin for further care by use of--"

"I'm well aware of what it does." Sherlock was staring John down like he was being the most idiotic person alive. "I asked you whose idea it was."

"...Well, it was applied by nurse Jameson and I," John said, almost defensively. "I made the decision to follow St. Mungo's standard operation procedures."

"Then are you aware, _Healer_ Watson, that Donahue's Ointment has been proven to be surprisingly ineffective as compared to a salve of crushed white seashells, belladonna, and lovage?"

The questions were coming rapid-fire and John barely had time to comprehend them. Sherlock obviously wanted answers just as quickly, and that was something John simply couldn't do. "Ah... well, no, I-- proved by who, exactly?"

"By me." Sherlock frowned. "It was published in an article in _The Scientific Findings in Magic_ in their May 2010 issue."

"I haven't read it," John confessed. "I-- what were the ingredients, again?"

"It hardly matters now." Sherlock sighed, looking put-out. "Donahue's Ointment will be finished with its poor excuse for a job in another two and a half hours and making and applying my own salve would take just as much time." He shook his head. "I can only hope you're more effective at healing than Donahue."

Briarson bristled. "Healer Watson is one of the most experienced and skilled healers at this hospital," she said, defensively.

"No, it's alright, don't worry about it," John murmured. "I can see Mr. Holmes is very specific about his care." He turned his gaze back to Sherlock, who was watching the two of them very seriously. "I'll work more closely with you from now on, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock almost smiled. "Sherlock, if you would," he said. "Mr. Holmes is my brother."

"Right." John sighed. "If there's anything else you need--"

"I'll take it from here." Briarson was already edging John out of the room, and John could only be grateful for that. He could still get another two hours or so. With a yawn, John moved back towards the break room, tuning out the voices in the ward as he passed.

Eccentric patients. God. John should have pegged Sherlock as a weird one from the moment he'd pulled out two ID cards. And what had been that bit about heist schemes and crime scenes? This was all way over his head.

He settled back into the bed, kicking his shoes and outer robe off again, and sighed into the pillow. Maybe Sherlock Holmes would be in a better mood later. He could only hope.


	2. Chapter 2

John slept for three hours - nobody had the heart to wake him, and he'd forgotten to set any kind of alarm. He didn't feel as bad about it as he should have until he was mid-way through slipping back into his shoes and remembered how hard on him the patient in room 5 had been for something John hadn't even, as far as he was concerned, done wrong.

John muttered a few choice words to himself as he fastened his robe on and moved out of the room, brushing a hand through his likely mussed hair.

Luckily, when he got to room 5, Sherlock was asleep. John stood in the doorway and watched him a moment, hands in his pockets, head tilted. There was something very vaguely familiar about him. Even if Sherlock's attitude hadn't been something that would stick out in John's memory, the name was unique. Sherlock's ID had said he was two years younger than John, but surely they'd gone to Hogwarts together...

There was the sound of a throat quietly being cleared behind him and John jumped, surprised. He turned to see a man in a very nice suit standing behind him, an umbrella hooked on his forearm. He smiled good-naturedly at him, but there was something a little sickly about his expression, and John couldn't help but frown, looking him up and down.

"Er-- hello?" he said, slowly. "Are you here to visit?" He didn't see a badge on the man's lapel or anywhere else, but the guy certainly wasn't any kind of employee of St. Mungo's. John would recognise him. "Mr. Holmes is about to begin treatment, I really can't let him see anybody right now--"

"Oh, I'm not here to see him," the man said, as if the mere notion was amusing. He offered his hand, and John hesitated before taking it. The man's grip was firm - he had a damn good shake. "I'm here to see you, Mr. Watson. That's-- John Watson? Correct?"

"Ah, yes." John self-consciously smushed his hair down on his head. He was hyper-aware of how he must have looked, suddenly - rumpled and messy, having just woken up, likely with bags under his eyes and tousled hair. The man in front of him was well-manicured and stylish, dressed to the nines and not bad-looking either. As if consciously choosing the worst moment ever, John's stomach let out a loud growl, proclaiming its hunger to the entire room. John blanched. "Er-- sorry. I--"

The man laughed, a rich sort of laughter that made John's noisy stomach curl in a way he couldn't explain. "Don't worry, Mr. Watson. I won't take up an inordinate amount of your time. I'll give you plenty of time to get some breakfast."

John didn't exactly have time for breakfast, considering he'd overslept, but he didn't argue this point with the man, smiling thinly instead. "Okay. Er. What's this about, then?"

"It's about the man in the room behind you." John looked over his shoulder instinctually, even though he already knew the man was referring to Sherlock. "You see, he is of some importance to me. I know his injuries are... rather treatable, but I find my worry difficult to dissuade unless I've done something about it. Are you following?"

John blinked, confused. "I-- what's your point, exactly?"

The man sighed laboriously. "My point, Mr. Watson, is that I'm very interested in assuring Sherlock's quality of care. I've looked you up and found you quite worthy - you came with gleaming recommendation to St. Mungo's from your professor at Hogwarts, and I believe the Head of your House - Gryffindor, was it? - called you--" He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a small leather notebook, which he flipped open easily with his thumb. "--ah, yes, 'quite bright and dutiful'. Miss Briarson just last night was eager to sing your praises."

John stared at him, frankly taken aback. "I'm sorry, how did you--"

"The other eight patients in this wing can wait." The man's smile was nearly gone now, his lips thin and pressed together. "I'm prepared to make a hefty addition to your vault at Gringotts, number 36819, for your cooperation. See to it that Sherlock gets your time and care. He is of the utmost importance." And just like that, the smile was back in place. The man reached out, patting John amicably on the shoulder. John nearly buckled under the unexpected pressure, still half-asleep from his nap. "There now. I promised I wouldn't take up too much of your time." He nodded as a way of waving and turned, moving down the hall and disappearing towards the stairs. John watched him go carefully, sucking in a breath.

He'd heard about it happening, but he'd never in over fifteen years at St. Mungo's been bribed for better treatment. It was ridiculous, of course - John was providing the best treatment he could, he would never do anything less. But this man's request was a little different... he wanted John to ignore the other patients in the ward and focus specifically on Sherlock.

John bit his lip, thinking. It was completely unprofessional and unethical of him to take the man up on his offer, even if he _hadn't_ offered what sounded like hundreds of Galleons (that just pushed the whole thing over the edge). He hadn't specified an amount, but his words and tone and just general _presence_ had said enough. John was pretty sure it would be a lot. Could he really turn that down? There were other Healers...

God. Was he really thinking this?

John sighed, shaking his head, and turned back towards Sherlock's room to start work. He was surprised to see Sherlock awake and sitting up, staring at him.

"Mr.-- ah, Sherlock. Glad to see you're awake."

"That voice always wakes me," Sherlock muttered, irritated. He lifted his arm, scratching where they'd put in the IV. John frowned. "But I only caught the very end of the conversation. I assume he was offering you money to do something. That's what he does."

John stepped into the room proper, sliding a curtain shut over the door frame for privacy. "He wants me to treat you and not focus on any other patients," he explained, gently folding Sherlock's blanket down to examine the burns on his legs. Sherlock was silent for a moment or two.

"Then you must be highly qualified." John could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, but he moved quickly and efficiently regardless, running a testing hand over the wounds. Sherlock tensed and hissed.

"They look much better," John said, as if by way of reassuring. "I think we can--" He pulled out his wand as he spoke, and that's when Sherlock suddenly launched in.

"You exemplify the characteristic traits of a Gryffindor - brave, daring, chivalrous. Your hands are callused, but not from work here - you wave around a wand all day. No, it's something else - dirt under your fingernails suggests you keep a garden, perhaps this is the cause. Your wand is also telling, if wandlore is to be believed - ash, a loyal wood, that says you're loyal yourself, but stubborn as well, it's believed wizards with wands made from ash are difficult to sway. You didn't tell my brother 'no' which means you may be considering it - given your suggested nature I can then deduce you must be on hard times, not getting paid the money you deserve."

John blinked, realising too late that his mouth was agape. Sherlock spoke a mile a minute, even moments after waking up. Finally, John crossed his arms. "How do you know I don't just spend like mad?"

Sherlock smiled, then, an altogether different smile from his-- wait, had Sherlock called that man his _brother_?

"Because," he began, pace not slowing, "your robes are not this year's fashions and the watch on your left hand is inexpensive - almost cheap." John checked it suddenly, embarrassed, but Sherlock continued, unabashed. "A man looking for things to spend his money on goes in for finery - nice clothing, nice accessories, but you haven't. You don't have a girlfriend, or at least not a long term one, so you aren't spending your money on her."

"I might have a girlfriend," John said, defensively.

"No," Sherlock answered. "When I demanded to see you last night, you arrived almost immediately - and you didn't apparate, I heard your footsteps clearly. That means you were sleeping somewhere in the hospital." He eyed John's messy hair as if to prove his point; John resisted the urge to try and smash it down once again. "Men with someone to go home to, someone they're spending money on, don't sleep in hospital break rooms after twenty hour shifts. Unless, of course, you're neglecting her. Your wand and your school house tell me you're not that kind of man. No, when you find someone you love, you will do anything for them."

It all seemed very logical but John was still impressed. He would have never come to those conclusions himself. He stared at Sherlock, momentarily removed from reality - he must have looked rather stupid standing there with lips slightly parted and wand at the ready, just gawking at the man like he was an interesting exhibit at a museum. Sherlock didn't seem to mind at all, however; he simply fixed his gaze on John in return and waited for him to break out of his stupor.

"Er," John said, finally. "That was-- good. Yeah. Very good. Uhm. I'm impressed, actually."

"I can tell."

"Right." Of course he could. He could probably tell what John had had for lunch two days ago. "We should really begin treatment, though--"

"Yes, we're already 74 minutes behind schedule." Sherlock slowly moved to sit up further, beginning to untie the hospital gown tied at his back. He was moving slowly no doubt because he was in pain, but he showed absolutely no sign of it on his face. "I assume you'll need this removed."

John flushed, his cheeks colouring. Damn, he'd never had somebody be so completely unbothered by needing to get naked. "Er, no--" John quickly held up his hands, and Sherlock stopped. "--You don't need to... I just have to see the burn on your hip. You can just slide the gown aside there, really--"

Sherlock did as he was told. John lifted his wand again, letting out a puff of air. "Ready?"

It went well enough. Sherlock didn't complain about the spells John used - in fact, Sherlock didn't say much of anything at all. It would be normal for people to gasp or hiss or howl in pain, but Sherlock stayed completely still. At times his eyes would narrow or tighten but that was the only thing betraying him at all. John tried to work quickly, but there was only so much they could do in one session. After half an hour, John lowered his wand, looking over Sherlock carefully.

"You'll need a few more days," he said, examining the burns. They were better, but still nasty - some spots looked like they were threatening to get infected, and that wouldn't do at all. "I'm seeing some signs of infection-- that was really a nasty curse, wasn't it?"

"The man who hit me with it was quite good at what he does." The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up, just a bit. "I am, however, also very good at what _I_ do."

John remembered the man on the second stretcher - clutching his stomach, blood at his mouth. "Did you poison him?" he asked.

"It was ridiculously complicated to get him to lower his guard enough to drink something of which he didn't know the origin." Sherlock looked rather impressed with himself. John normally found that sort of look annoying, but with Sherlock, it somehow seemed as if he'd earned it, which was strangely endearing.

As John went to work finding something to clean the wounds and disinfect them, Sherlock talked John through what had happened to bring him in to St. Mungo's in the first place - he explained that he was a "consulting Auror", which sounded ridiculous at first but less so as Sherlock carried on. He mentioned a man John had read about recently in the _Prophet_ \- the Artefact Thief, a man who'd been breaking in to places holding old and famous magical artefacts and taking them. But Sherlock explained there was something the Aurors hadn't realised - the artefacts were being taken, but the thief was leaving something behind, as well.

"Something nondescript that nobody would notice wasn't there before," Sherlock said, gritting teeth at the end of his sentence as John slowly worked at bandaging the wounds. The disinfectant stung. "A normal quill, a tattered copy of some inane first year book. Something normal that would fit in around them. And when someone would touch that object, whether to clean up or use it or throw it away, it would curse them."

John blinked. He'd never heard of something like that before. "A curse? Transmitted through touch?"

"Brilliant." Sherlock looked genuinely impressed. "I was able to discover it when I noticed a pattern. House or store gets hit, and within the week someone with access to it ended up here. All people complaining of the same symptoms. Honestly, I'm surprised _you_ didn't notice."

"How would I have noticed?" John frowned, taping the last bandage in place with a murmured charm, then tucking his wand away.

"Nobody ever does." Sherlock sighed.

"Well." John stood from his chair. "You're probably tired. You should rest that brilliant mind of yours. Get some sleep."

Sherlock looked surprised, then amused. "Not so easy for me. Actually, I was wondering if you could do something for me. After all, you're not off shift yet, and Mycroft's going to make sure your attention isn't diverted."

John frowned. "I'm still not sure I'm going to take that deal."

"Do yourself a favour and take it," Sherlock said, shrugging. "And take this, as well." He grabbed the wallet sitting on his side table and pulled out a few of the coins - three Galleons and a Sickle. "I'm bored here. I need something to do. Take this to Flourish and Blotts and bring me back something to read. Anything that's not dull." He handed John the frequent buyer's punch card John had noticed the day before as well. John blinked, then sighed.

"I'm a Healer," he said, "not your errand boy."

"Believe me, you will be doing me a lot of good." Sherlock thought a moment. "A copy of the Daily Prophet too, if you would."

John took the money and card, tucking them into his pocket. "Is there anything else I can get you?" he asked, insincere. Sherlock either missed the tone or just ignored it.

"That will be all."

John shook his head as he turned out of the room and moved down the hall. He hardly even knew Sherlock Holmes - what sort of book was he supposed to buy? He supposed he'd just ask for something new and interesting, and if it looked too difficult for him to comprehend it would be perfect.

Diagon Alley wasn't too terribly far from St. Mungo's, so John decided to walk. He could use the fresh air. Just a few blocks from the hospital John turned down Charing Cross Road and came to the Leaky Cauldron, and he stepped inside.

Not many people around so early in the morning. John moved through, avoiding where a worker was sweeping the floor, and went through the back door. He took out his wand, faced the brick wall, and tapped out the code (two up, three across). The wall gave way to the street beyond.

John checked his watch. 9:30. Most stores would have just opened about half an hour ago. He took a few strides down the walk, passing a Quidditch store and a stationary shop. Flourish & Blotts was the fifth store down on the right hand side.

Not many people were out, but there was a man and a woman walking arm-in-arm with a young blonde child just down the way. John glanced towards them just in time to see a spark shooting across the sky, hitting the cobblestones just centimetres in front of them. John gasped, the woman and young girl shrieking as the stone exploded, pieces of it flying up towards them. The man grabbed his daughter's arm and quickly pulled them both into the nearest store for cover just as another blast came, singeing the man on the shoulder just before he could get away. He cried in pain and John rushed forward before he could stop himself. A shot just missed him, but John kept running until he toppled into the open door of the Ice Cream Parlour across the way, just after the family, shutting the door behind him.

The little girl was crying. The mother had her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. John quickly turned his gaze on the father, lying still on the floor, hand gripping his shoulder. There was blood, and a lot of it.

Diagon Alley was under attack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for reading. Quick note: I did go back (about a couple days ago) and change John's house from Hufflepuff to Gryffindor. In my original planning notes for the fic I had him written as a Gryffindor, but somehow when I started writing I accidentally a Hufflepuff and that mistake was born. :x It's not going to really come up a ton, most likely, but I wanted to set the record straight anyway. I consider John's bravery to be more important than any loyalty he has (and I think this reflects his canon conversation with Mycroft in A Study in Pink). I'm really sorry for the confusion!

"Let me see," John said, wand already out, grabbing for the man. "Let me see it, I'm a Healer." He turned the man over, carefully, staring at the wound.

It was bizarre - John had never seen a spell effect like this one. It looked almost like a bullet wound, like a shot had been fired from an actual Muggle _gun_. Those were hard to come by in England, even for Muggles. Most wizards had never even seen one.

John definitely knew, however, that the shot had been from a wand. He'd seen it himself - a bright red spark, a flash of light. There wasn't a bullet in the wound, either.

The man was still in shock, staring at the blood on the tile coming from his shoulder. John gripped his other shoulder.

"Move your hand," he said, raising his wand. "I can fix this, no problem. Just move your hand."

With a quick _"Episkey"_ and a flick John fixed the wound well enough - the man's clothing was still tattered and stained, but John wasn't a tailor. He turned to look towards the counter - an employee in an apron and hat stared at the group, transfixed, hands over her mouth.

"Send a message to the Ministry," John said, quickly, getting to his feet. "Not by owl. Some other way. Call, god, I don't know, Auror Lestrade."

The girl looked confused for a moment before nodding. "Th-there's... there's a fireplace in the back," she said. "I can-- by floo..."

"Go," John said. "Quickly!"

She turned and ran, and John turned his gaze back towards the family. The man had crawled across the floor and was hugging his wife and daughter to him, but nobody was feeling courageous enough to stand.

"Are you alright?" John asked, quietly. "Your shoulder?"

"I'm fine." The man broke away, quickly wiping his face. "This is all political. Trying to scare the vote out of me. It's all that damned--"

The next shot blasted through the glass. The little girl shrieked. Quickly, the group moved back from the entrance, settling to cower behind the counter.

Moments later, a stream of aurors clambered into the store from the back room, led by the girl in the apron, bits of soot and ash clinging to her clothes. Gregory Lestrade was there, along with a group of official-looking men and women with wands ready in their hands.

"Where's the attacker?" Lestrade asked, looking from the injured man to John.

"We don't know," John answered, quickly. "This man was hurt, but I was able to mend the wound."

"Saved my life," the man said, coming to his feet.

"I don't know about all that--"

"Aren't you the Healer?" Lestrade asked, looking John up and down. "From St. Mungo's? Yesterday?"

"Yes, actually." John was surprised; he hadn't expected to be recognised.

"You should get back to your patient." Lestrade turned his gaze towards the door, eyes roaming over the broken glass. "We'll handle this."

John couldn't argue with that. He nodded, shook the hand of the man he'd healed, and apparated.

\----------

John came out right outside room 5. He took a moment to catch his breath, still shaken up from what had just happened. It felt surreal. Like a film. It couldn't possibly be real.

"Something's wrong." It was Sherlock's voice. John tensed, not having expected it. Somebody had pulled the curtain back, so Sherlock was staring at him.

"Yes," John breathed. "Yes. Something is wrong."

"What is it." He sat up straighter, but his expression remained even. John slumped against the door frame, unsure of how to answer.

"There's a sniper picking people off in Diagon Alley."

With that, Sherlock was suddenly out of bed. He stripped from his hospital gown, not minding John's gaze, and began to pull on a stack of nicely-folded clothes in a chair beside the bed. John wondered when and how those had appeared there.

He quickly turned away, trying to maintain Sherlock's privacy. "What are you-- where do you think you're going?"

"That's interesting," he explained. "Very interesting. More interesting than being here."

"You aren't healed yet," John protested. "You can't just be running around London chasing down the next criminal."

"I can get around." He pulled his shirt on, buttoning it in place. "Have they found where he is?"

"I don't know. Not yet. It started when I stepped into the street. Someone was shooting at some man with a family - it happened very quickly, I managed to heal his shoulder and get someone to call the Ministry."

"So Lestrade's there now." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, tucking his shirt in place. "He'll need me. His team's shit with forensics, thinks it's something only Muggles need to worry about." He rolled his eyes.

"I can't let you leave," John said, suddenly positioning himself in the doorway. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"I could just apparate, you know."

John frowned. "I told your brother I'd take care of you."

"Then come with me." Sherlock was dressed, now, and staring John down. "I may need a healer."

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock's hand was already on his arm. Vaguely, as they apparated, he realised he was getting in way over his head.

\----------

When they returned, just outside Flourish & Blotts, the street was swarming with aurors. John turned his gaze towards Sherlock and watched him stride towards Lestrade - the man was standing just where the first shot had hit the stone, examining the hole it had left. John quickly followed after him.

"Did you see the angle?" Sherlock asked him, crouching a little.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, confused. "You, when I need you, I'll call for you. As for you," he turned his gaze back to John, "you really shouldn't have told him about this."

"John doesn't know better yet," Sherlock said, dismissively. "Now, I asked, did you see the angle at which the shot was fired, John?"

"What do you mean, I don't know better yet?" John asked, crossing his arms. "I told you not to come down here. It goes completely against all my medical advice."

"And completely against my rules," Lestrade cut in. "There's still a dangerous man targeting this street, Sherlock. I can't have civilians wandering around on it. If either of you get hurt, it's my ass on the line."

Sherlock waved him off like he was a particularly annoying fly. He was quiet for a long moment afterwards, staring at the hole in the street, and John was about to ask if he'd gone into some sort of coma when Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, sprinting towards Knockturn Alley. John blinked after him, confused, but Lestrade must have been more used to the behaviour - he sighed then quickly chased after him, waving John along. John was quick to follow.

John couldn't say he'd ever been down this street before. Sherlock stopped at the entrance and then turned back, looking back towards the impact point before following an invisible line up towards a black, twisted house further up the lane. He moved towards it with a purpose, and Lestrade quickly whistled, calling some nearby aurors over.

"Have you found him?" he asked Sherlock, but Sherlock shushed him, slowly approaching the house. John stayed two steps behind.

When the reached the front step, Sherlock threw the door open and suddenly sprinted up the stairs. John followed as fast as he could, past the first floor, then a second, and finally up to a small, cramped attic. There, Sherlock had stopped cold, standing in the doorway, his gaze covering the room. John tried to look out over his shoulder, but Sherlock was taller than him, making that pretty difficult.

"There's been someone here," Sherlock said. The house itself was abandoned - broken windows, no furniture - but this room was different. There was a mattress sitting on the floor, a pillow and blanket on it. John could see empty crisps bags and even a chocolate wrapper on the floor. Sherlock suddenly stepped into the room, just as Lestrade came up from behind, but he didn't stop to look at anything left behind on the floor - he moved with a purpose towards the cracked window.

There was paper taped at eye-level. Sherlock peeled it off the window. John stared - it was clearly an article cut out of the _Daily Prophet_. The photograph showed a surly-looking man with dark curls and a black coat, the collar turned up against his face. From where John was, he could just read the bold-printed headline.

_"CONSULTING AUROR" SOLVES CASE OF ARTEFACT HEIST; INJURED IN SCUFFLE WITH THIEF_

"Good work, Sherlock," Lestrade said, not having noticed the paper at all. He was too busy looking around the room, shaking his head. "Looks like you found our sniper's nest. Long gone, though... must have run off as soon as he saw us arrive." 

"Somebody knew I was coming," Sherlock said, turning his gaze out the window. "Somebody knew, and when they saw me, they cleaned up fast."

\----------

Eventually, John was able to talk Sherlock into going back to St. Mungo's. Sherlock paced his room, staring at the newspaper article.

"You really need to get back to bed," John protested. "I mean it. Your wounds aren't healed, you're just going to aggravate them. Curse effects like that take time to undo."

"Forget the burns," Sherlock said, waving John's words off without looking up from the article. "I have a _case_ , John. I'll sign myself out."

John sighed. "Not without doctor permission, you won't," he challenged. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "I shouldn't have even let you leave here, especially not by apparition to go chase down a sniper." He could definitely feel a headache coming on. "I would really feel much better if you would stay."

"There's no time for that. Lestrade's team isn't going to be able to catch the sniper. I have to find him before he hurts anyone else."

John had a hard time arguing with that.

Sherlock had his belongings and was standing at the main desk getting his discharge papers in nearly record time. John hadn't yet gotten rid of his frown.

"You're going to need more care," he said. Sherlock was ignoring him.

"I'll manage," he said, finally. "Goodbye." He turned to leave, and John opened his mouth for a retort but by the time he'd thought of what to say Sherlock was already gone with a _pop_.

His need to apparate everywhere was actually very infuriating.

\----------

When John's fifteen hours were over, it was finally time to head home. He had a little flat nearby he usually walked to. It was nearing midnight and the streets were quiet - not deserted, but not busy like they were earlier in the day.

To say John was exhausted would be an understatement. He trudged home, counting down the steps until he could be in his flat with a bite to eat, a hot shower, and a warm bed.

And then he noticed a black car rolling slowly down the street, pulling up towards him. It stopped at the curb, idling. John paused, then continued to move forward, ignoring it. The car followed.

It was then that he noticed a small flag hanging off the back, bearing the symbol of the Ministry of Magic.

"Surely not," he murmured.

The back window rolled down.

"Good evening, Healer Watson." The man inside smiled towards him, and John sighed. It was Mycroft Holmes, the man who'd bothered him in St. Mungo's. Which probably meant that this was definitely about Sherlock.

"Look," John said, "I did everything I could. He refused to stay. I even put on the paperwork that it was against my advice. I couldn't hold him against his will."

Mycroft laughed. "Don't worry, John." The switch to his first name was jarring. "I'm not angry with you." He peered out from the window, eyes scanning the street before the door suddenly opened. "Get inside. We can talk elsewhere."

John wouldn't have done it had it not been for the Ministry flag on the back. Was this guy involved in the Ministry somehow? Sherlock seemed to be, in some kind of capacity.

Really, none of this made any kind of sense. Still, he couldn't exactly argue with not wanting to talk about wizarding business on a public London street. That was enough to get him in trouble.

Sliding into the car, John shut the door behind him and the window rolled up as the car pulled away from the curb and started to move through the streets. John frowned. 

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Don't worry about that." Mycroft had his legs crossed, hands folded and resting on his knees, smiling demurely. "You tended to Sherlock admirably."

"He said you're his brother," John cut in, frowning. "You could have just said that, would have been a lot less confusing--"

"You'll find there are many confusing things between Sherlock and I," Mycroft said, sounding impatient, as if explaining such an obvious fact was a waste of his time.

"I don't think that I will," John said, stubborn. "Unless he starts making a habit of landing himself in hospital."

Mycroft's smile widened. "Ah, now we're getting to the heart of the matter. You see, John, my brother, while clearly brilliant, does have quite a mess of destructive habits. As I told you earlier, I find it difficult to keep myself from worrying about him. You would be doing me a great service if you were to finish taking care of him. I believe his wounds were still unhealed."

"You want me to make a house call?" John frowned. "I... guess I could do that."

"You would be compensated, naturally."

"Is that where you're taking me, then?"

Mycroft didn't say anything. The car slowed and then stopped. John peered out from the window - a café, which was closed, and beside it, the door to a flat.

It was a very nice location. John wasn't exactly surprised. He got the feeling the Holmes family had plenty of gold.

"It might be best," Mycroft said, suddenly, "if you let him think you got the idea to come on your own. He's less likely to kick you out that way."

And with that, John was out of the car and alone at the curb. The car moved swiftly down the street and out of sight, leaving him standing at the stoop of 221B, hand raised at the knocker and feeling suddenly fifty times more sleepy.

This horrible day wasn't over yet. Against all forms of better judgment, John knocked.


End file.
